


Dead Man's Curve

by underatomicskies



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Stangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-06 01:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18840520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underatomicskies/pseuds/underatomicskies
Summary: Stan wrecks his car the night he's kicked out and Ford has a change of heart. Will he have the chance to apologize to his brother or will he finally get the freedom he wanted but at a price he didn't want to pay?





	Dead Man's Curve

**Author's Note:**

> I found this fic (amongst others. Hopefully I’ll get around to posting them too) buried in my laptop from probably 3-4 years ago. I’ve seen several takes of this written over the years, but this topic is quite personal to me, and this was very therapeutic for me to write, both back then, and now that I’ve finished it. I hope you enjoy it! Happy reading!

“High six?” Stanley’s voice pleaded, desperately hopeful. From two stories up, Stan seemed so small as he stood shrunken and sad on the sidewalk. No matter how sad he appeared, Ford couldn’t find it in himself to muster any sympathy for him- his anger and hurt so strong it was nearly blinding. As Ford’s eyes glanced to Stan’s outstretched hand he briefly thought about returning it, but it was more of an impulse, like a dog following a command.

Seventeen years. That was how long they had been a pair. A packaged deal. It was never just Stanford Pines, it was always Stanford and Stanley, or the Pines twins. It wasn’t that Stanford didn’t love his brother. If he didn’t love him, his betrayal wouldn’t have hurt Ford as much as it did. Ford just wanted his space. He wanted to be his own person and not part of some package. West Coast Tech had been everything he dreamed of. It was all the way across the country; he couldn’t get any further away from Glass Shard Beach unless he hoped on a boat. As much as he loved Stanley, he knew it would be good for the both of them to have some time apart and grow individually.

He just didn’t expect it to turn out this way. He never thought that Stanley would sabotage him like this. Pop throwing him out of the house wasn’t too big of a surprise; the old man never did seem to like Stan all that much. He couldn’t get anything from Stan. Their principal said it himself; Stan would be in New Jersey for the rest of his life. Pops could have gotten more from Stanford, at least he could have if he had gotten into West Coast Tech. But it was pointless to think of what could have happened. All that counts is that Stanley sabotaged Ford’s dream school.

Ford’s eyes fell to the pamphlet he held in his hands. His freakish, six fingered hands. All of what could have been was gone forever. He had no chance of getting into West Coast Tech now. His path would be harder now. He’d have to work twice as hard to achieve what he would have been given at West Coast Tech. He’d have to settle for some other second rate school, if he was lucky to afford it.

Fists clenching around the paper, he shut the blinds and turned his back to the window. He could still hear Stan’s voice quietly, pitifully from the sidewalk where he stood with only a bag and a car, “Sixer?”

Ford squeezed his eyes shut tightly, his shoulders tensing. No, he wasn’t going to give in. Stanley ruined his dream of getting into his dream school, destroyed his future all because he was so selfish and couldn’t let him go. For a brief moment, statistics flashed through his brain. Stan was 17, and hadn’t even graduated high school. Ford doubted he would finish it on his own; Stan never cared about school and now he wouldn’t have Ford to cheat off of, or his parents to force him to go every day. Even if he did go to school, he wouldn’t have to grades to graduate. 17 year olds without a high school education didn’t usually last too long. They certainly didn’t have much of a future.

Ford pushed the thoughts away, reminding himself that Stanley was strong. He’d be fine; Stanley was always fine. He was good with people and Ma always did say he had personality. He’d be able to find some way to make a decent living for himself. He’d beat the statistics and he’d be fine.

“Fine! I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!” Stan suddenly shouted. He could hear the slam of his car door, followed by the car engine turning on. The wheels squealed as Stan sped off, followed by more screeching and a dull crash as he turned his car around and ran over the neighbor’s trash cans.

He sat down, back against the wall. The pamphlet sat crumpled in his lap. Fitting for his crumpled dream. His hands found their way into his thick mouse-brown hair, gripping at the roots and tugging lightly.

Things would be different without Stanley. The room already felt empty and he hadn’t even been gone five minutes. The bottom bunk that they had shared since they were kids would be empty, and his mess in the room would remain until Ford cleaned it up. The desk beside him in class where Stan usually sat would now be empty, as would the chair at the kitchen table.

However, that also meant that Ford would have more space. He could spread his belongings out and have a room all to himself for the first time in his life. He wouldn’t have anyone cheating off of him anymore, and he certainly wouldn’t be called to the school office due to some sort of trouble that Stan somehow roped him into.

He had to look on the bright side of things. He wouldn’t have Stanley bugging him and distracting him from his school work anymore. He certainly wouldn’t have him messing up any other projects, though it wouldn’t matter. He’d never get another opportunity like the one Stan had ruined.

Maybe Pa was right. Maybe everyone had been right; he was better off without Stanley. Staying around him would have only dragged Ford down; they’d both be better apart from one another.

Not a moment after that thought ran through Ford’s mind when he heard a terrible, crunching noise that nearly stopped his heart. He didn’t know if he could describe the noise; it’s awful sound reverberated in his rib cage and bounced around in his skull. It seemed to echo through his body, and his blood turned to ice. He knew exactly what that sound meant.

Hoping to God that it wasn’t what he thought, he raced to the window and yanked the curtains away in time to see two cars slowing to a stop down the street, the dust billowing in the air.

Bile rose in his throat. His brain tried to deny what he was seeing, desperately not wanting to believe what he saw. It wasn’t an all too familiar red El Diablo that was crumbled in, the metal frame of the car looking like someone had balled up a piece of paper. It couldn’t be.

Looking back, he didn’t remember running out of his room to the door. He couldn’t recall sprinting faster than he had ever run before. He tore through the house, ripping the door open as he burst out to the street, sprinting to his brother’s car. His voice cried above the commotion, but it sounded foreign to his own ears, “Stanley!”

He dashed across the street, either forgetting that other cars were still on the street, or not caring about anything other than getting to Stanley. He just knew that he had to get to his brother. He had to make sure he was ok.

Just feet away from the car, unable to see in due to the angle, suddenly Stanford came to a stop. Staring wide eyed at the car, he realized his brother could possibly be dead. It slowly began to sink into Ford’s brain that his brother could possibly dead, and if he had just gone to his brother when he had called to him, this never would have happened.

Luckily, his brain didn’t let him dwell on that for too long. Stanley wasn’t dead, he stubbornly told himself. Stan was indestructible, larger-than-life. He’s seen him take punch after punch like it was nothing. It would take more than just a car crash to---

Even though he was standing mere feet away from the crash, his brain felt as though it would baulk at the mere thought that the crash was real.

All of this happened in the blink of an eye, his thoughts wildly rattling around in head. Shaking his head, Stanford pushed the thoughts away, focusing solely on Stanley. He might need his help; he had to get to him immediately. He had to push the panic out of the way and focus on his twin. Glass crunched under his feet as he rushed the rest of the distance, stopping at the driver’s side of the El Diablo.

Knees shaking, he noted how the driver’s side of the car, Stanley’s side of the car, was crushed in. Shattered glass was everywhere, but Stanford didn’t even notice it as his eyes moved to his brother.

Stanley was slumped against what was left of the door frame. His arm looked mangled from where it lay limply by his side. Blood, bright against the dark of Stan’s hair and the deathly pale of his skin, was running from his forehead and from his mouth.

“Stanley!” Ford cried, terrified to touch his brother in fear that he’d hurt him, or break him, or worse. For as brilliant as he was, his brain felt like it was working through sludge. He knew at least that he shouldn’t move Stan to avoid possibly injuring him more if his neck or back was broken. But other than that, he didn’t know what to do.

In a moment, Stan appeared to stir some. His eyes fluttered, not quite opening. His head barely moved, but his lips parted. A terrible gasp of pain spilled from his lips. It was quiet and weak, but it was a sound that would haunt Ford for years to come.

Without thinking, Ford’s fingers ghosted over Stan’s fingers, just to let him know he was there, that he wasn’t alone.

“You’re okay, Stanley, you’re okay.” He said. Whether he was trying to convince Stanley, or himself, he wasn’t sure. He was doing a poor job at either; Ford’s voice quivered uncertainty. Stan certainly didn’t look or sound ok, but Ford was so desperately trying to believe that he would be.

He had been unaware of the background, and of the large crowd that had gathered around until a bit of conversation reached his ears. People were whispering and murmuring amongst themselves. No one dared to get closer but they didn’t leave either.

“Heh, serves ‘im right for driving like a lunatic.” One cold voice spoke up.

“If he’d just stopped at the stop sign, he would have seen that truck.” Another piped up.

“I’ve called 911; help will be here soon.” He heard a kinder voice say.

He sagged in relief. Stan would get help. The doctors would be able to know how to make him ok again. In just a few months, he and Stan would be sitting in their bunk beds again laughing over everything.

Ford’s hand gently rested over the top of Stan’s less injured hand. “You’ll be okay, Stanley. They’re going to come and take care of you. They’ll make sure they fix you up good. Just hang in there, alright Stanley?”

Ford would receive no answer.

Stan’s eyes remained closed, his body was still apart from the rise and fall of his chest. Ford’s eyes stayed trained on his chest, his thumb rubbing circles into the top of Stan’s hand ever so gently as they waited for help to arrive. All the while, he kept murmuring words of comfort and reassurement to Stan. He remained by his side until responders finally arrived and moved Ford out of the way so they could start cutting off the top of Stan’s car to get him out.

Watching from the side lines, Ford watched with almost a disbelieving detachment. Absentmindedly, he thought about how upset Stan will be that his car is destroyed now. However, he could also hear Stan joking about how he had a convertible now, and the idea of Stan joking around made him want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Ford wasn’t sure at what point his mother got there; unsure of whether she had ran out not long after him, or if she had only just come out. Stanley and his mother had always been close, but now she clung to Ford’s arm, openly crying as she watched her son being cut out of his car. Ford couldn’t recall ever seeing her cry before, and to see her crying now made the situation seem all too real.

If there was one thing he noticed, it was how his father was nowhere to be seen; as if he couldn’t be bothered by the fact that his son was possibly dying. Anger flared in Ford to think that if Pa hadn’t thrown Stan out, this would have never happened. Stan would be sitting in the house; safe, unhurt and alive. But then it occurred to Ford that he had a part to play in this too.

Stan had looked to him for help. He couldn’t deny it; Stan had sat outside, looking up at his window, his voice clearly begging Ford to not let him be kicked out.

Ford hated himself for not going to his brother. He had been so angry, so hurt by the idea that Stan could have destroyed his project, but he was certain now of the truth.

Stan would never intentionally destroy his project. He should have believed his brother when he told him that it was an accident. He should have talked to him somewhere more private than the living room, where their father could hear them. He should have given Stan a chance to explain himself, and he shouldn’t have just turned shoulder when his father kicked Stan out of the house.

It didn’t occur to him until then that Stan’s bag had been already packed. Filbrick had packed a bag and had it ready and sitting around, just waiting for the opportunity to throw his son out of the house.

Filbrick had never been a man to show physical affection, but Ford had always believed that deep down, never spoken, his father loved them. But now he was faced with the facts. He had been waiting to toss Stan out. He didn’t even bother to leave the house when his son could possibly be dying. It was never a secret that his father hadn’t intended to have twins. Hell, Ford doubted he had intended to have any kids. Having a kid had been a mistake, but the twins even more so, and Ford could see now that his father must have seen Stan as the extra; the spare.

Despite Ford’s freakish hands, he was the one that mattered more. He was smarter than Stan, at least academically; his father probably thought he would make him money someday. He didn’t really care about his sons; all he cared about was the money they could make him, and in his eyes, Stan was going nowhere, and therefore, was useless to him.

Ford’s hands trembled as these thoughts and realizations ran through his head. He hated his father. He hated him for how he viewed Stan, for how he tossed him out like trash, and for how he left Stan to die on the streets. But most of all, he hated himself for not realizing this until now, until he couldn’t do anything to help Stan. He was no better than his father. If anything, he was worse because he allowed one mistake to keep him from seeing that what was happening to Stan was wrong.

If he had just thought of his brother sooner, he could have helped him. He could have possibly prevented this from happening. Stan was by no means a good driver. He was erratic on the road and had no regard for the speed limit. Combined with the cocktail of emotions he no doubt must have been feeling, he probably wasn’t even thinking about driving. He probably drove straight through the intersection without even thinking to look to see if another car was coming.

The thought made Ford want to blanch. Briefly, he wondered if Stan would die. He didn’t even want to think of that. It was too much to think that his brother’s last thoughts would be about how his family kicked him out, how his brother turned his back on him and let him be tossed aside. He wanted nothing more than to apologize to his brother, to know he was safe and have an opportunity to make up to him for turning him aside like that.

Again, it crossed Ford’s mind that Stan could possibly die. His brain, however brilliant it might be, couldn’t seem to process that idea. Stan was the strong one, the energetic one, the one with ‘personality’. He was so full of life, that the idea that Stan could be dying right now, that he would be dead in a matter of minutes, or hours was unbelievable.

The image of Stan’s face, so bloody, slumped against where the window should have been, haunted Ford. Every time he blinked, it was there like a constant reminder. That small, pitiful cry of pain echoed in his head. There was no denying it, or convincing himself that it wasn’t real.

Slowly, this acceptance started to trickle through to Ford, like water flowing through a web of cracks, and his previous calm behavior began to crack. A broken sob escaped his lips. Quickly, his hands, his freakish six-fingered hands, clamped over his mouth, shocked that such a pitiful, heartbroken noise came from him. With that one sob, the damn broke and next thing he knew, he was sobbing.

His mother clutched closer at his arm, no doubt seeking comfort from the pain they were both going through. Ford leaned closer to her, seeking the comfort only a mother could provide. Throughout his childhood, Ma was always there to kiss him and Stan better when they came home scuffed up from bullies, or the typical scrapes kids seemed to have a knack for acquiring. Ma couldn’t kiss Stan better now, but Ford could only hope that she’d get the chance to later.

Together, he and his mother clung to each other and cried. The reality of the situation was finally sinking in as much as they didn’t want to believe it, and the tears were like a never-ending torrent. They were helpless to do anything now. Their opportunity to help Stan had already passed, and they didn’t do anything for him.

Time seemed to stretch on until finally, Stanley was carefully removed from the broken wreck of his car and loaded into an ambulance.

Ma pulled away from their embrace, “Do you want to come with me to the hospital?” she asked. It wasn’t even a question; of course, Ford wanted to go. He nodded and he and his mother made their way to the family car.

Filbrick was still nowhere in sight as his wife and son got into the car, and there was an unspoken agreement that neither he or his mother were going to go get him. Ford knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but he had hoped maybe Filbrick would come out. But the house was still as Ford and his mother drove past.

The drive to the hospital seemed like a blur. When Ford would look back on it afterwards, he didn’t recall much of it at all. He remembered holding his mother’s hand like he used to when he was a small boy as they walked into the hospital together.

The waiting room was much too quiet, much too ordinary. It felt so wrong; Stanley could be dying. His twin brother could die without knowing how sorry Ford was, how much he regretted turning his back on his twin. Ford’s whole world was crumbling to pieces, yet the world around him still turned, unaffected, unchanged.

Bile rose in his throat, threatening to come up, but Ford didn’t think he had the energy to actually throw up. After he had sank into one of the waiting room chairs, it was like all of the energy he had left had been sucked out of him.

The logical part of his brain told him it was a result of his adrenaline waning, leaving him sapped, exhausted, and hopeless. He usually prided himself for having such a logical perspective, but now it was treacherously reminding him that Stan’s car had been so small when compared to the truck, which had barely taken any damage other than a few dents. Nothing compared to how mangled Stan’s car had been. He knew the shock had to go somewhere, had to be absorbed by something or someone.

He shook his head, not wanting to finish that thought. But he couldn’t keep the images away. Stan, so limp and still in his car. So different from his usually loud, energetic brother. The unnatural angle of his arm. The blood dripping from his face. The glass littering the scene.

Ford knew Stan would be lucky if he just had a broken arm to deal with. There was no telling what kind of injuries he had internally. Maybe a broken rib, or a collapsed lung, or internal bleeding. It was frightening to think of the possibilities.

“Stanford,” his mother's voice cut through his thoughts. He’d never heard her voice sound so hollow. Her hand covered his, lacing her fingers through his six, “I’m glad you’re here, sweetie.”

Ford merely blinked at her. Did she think he wouldn’t be? Did she think one fight would be enough to make Ford turn his back on his brother?

He supposed it had, hadn’t it? Ford had already turned his back to Stan. If it hadn’t been for the accident, who knows how long he would have gone without talking to Stan. He wanted to hope it wouldn’t be long; that he’d find Stan after he had time to cool down, but Ford knew better. Why admit he did anything wrong when he could have simply clutched onto the anger, blaming Stan for everything. It would have been ages until he finally contacted Stan again, and by that point, would Stan even want to see him?

That was something he hadn’t even begun to consider. After all this (assuming Stan lived), would Stan want to see him? The accident was Ford’s fault; if he had said something to Pops, if he had gone after Stan, if he’d just talked to him, Stan wouldn’t be in this situation.

He had been so quick to turn his back on Stan for something so trivial now, but the idea of Stan doing the same to him made his heart clench painfully, strangling a weak noise from his throat.

His mother turned to face him, taking both of his hands in hers and giving them a tight squeeze. Her eyes were round with sympathy and her mascara was smudged all around her eyes.

“Ford, sweetie, it’ll be ok. I know things seem so scary right now. I’m scared too, ya know? You know your brother; he’s a tough cookie.He’ll be ok; I know this for a fact. The spirits told me so.”

Ford resisted the urge to laugh. He knew his Ma was just a phony psychic, but he desperately wanted to believe her words. He needed to. He didn’t know what he’d do with himself if anything worse happened to his brother.

Feeling like a small child again, Ford leaned his head forward, resting his forehead on her shoulder. One of her hands released his in favor of petting his disheveled hair.

“This is all my fault, Ma.” he choked out with difficulty. Admitting the words to himself was hard enough, but voicing them felt like a betrayal. “I should have listened to Stan. I should have said something to keep Pa from throwin’ him out like that.”

His mother’s hands were on his shoulders, her grip tight and firm as she forced him back to look at her. He flinched, expecting her to yell back at him, to blame him for doing this to her baby. He deserved it.

Her expression softened and she wiped at the tears that Ford hadn’t even noticed were coursing down his face. “Oh sweetie,” she whispered, voice low and soft. Somehow, her kindness was worse. “This isn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself for this. I couldn’t even convince your father to see reason.”

A tear slipped down her own cheek at this admission. Ford was overwhelmed with a swell of hatred for his father once again.

“But,” his mother bit out, voice shaking with emotion. The hand wiping at his hand stilled for a moment before cupping his face, “When Stanley’s better, you two can talk. I know my boys; Stan won’t blame you for this, and he wouldn’t want you to either. But--” she paused, biting her bottom lip, “I think he’d like if the two of you talked things through.”

Ford mulled her words over, nodding. Of course he wanted to talk to his brother. He needed to. His mother was so certain that he’d get the chance to, but Ford was so terrified that he would never get the chance. He’d been so eager to finally get away from being his brother, to get some space to be just Stanford, but that was the last thing he wanted now. Stan was his other half, his better half.

He didn’t want to imagine a world, his world, without Stanley Pines in it.

Mother and son settled into their seats once more. They were silent as the hours ticked by, always maintaining contact with clasped hands. Occasionally, someone would come out to update them on what was going on, but the last they heard had been hours ago when they reported that Stan was going into surgery.

His mother had fallen asleep at some point, but Ford stayed wide awake. It wasn’t until a few hours later that someone came out for them once again. Ford squeezed his mother’s hand as the doctor came over to them. He introduced himself as he offered a hand to the pair, which they shook.

“Stanley is out of surgery,” he reports. Still, neither Ford or his mother relaxed, “We’ve been able to stabilize most of his injuries but he’s still in serious condition.”

The hand in Ford’s tightened. His mother spoke up, “What does that mean? Is Stanley going to be ok?”

“Stanley sustained some rather serious injuries from the accident. We’ve repaired the break to his ulna and internal injuries, but he has a herniated disc that will require some care, but luckily no further surgery at the moment. We also suspect he has a concussion. They’re stabilized, but we’re going to want to keep him longer for pain management and to monitor him to make sure there’s no further complications.”

Ford’s stomach churned as the doctor spoke, and beside him, his mother gasped and covered her mouth with her free hand. “My poor boy!”

“He’s still under anesthesia and on some heavy pain killers, but you can come back and see him now if you wish.” The doctor offered.

Both Ford and his mother nodded silently, rising from their chairs for the first time in hours. The doctor led them back through the hospitals hallways. He stopped outside a room, turning to face them.

Ford’s hand gripping his mother squeezed. He wasn’t sure if they were prepared to see what shape Stan was in, but he’d already been away from Stan’s side longer than he would have wanted. He owed it to Stan to be at his side now.

Hesitantly, Ford and his mother stepped into the room as the doctor slid the door open for them. The room was small and yet somehow Stan looked even smaller as he laid motionless in the hospital bed. His mother made a wounded sound at the sight of her son laying so prone and broken. They were used to Stan, who was loud, larger than life, never sitting still, not this imposter attached to far too many machines, too many bandages covering his skin.

It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. Stan wasn’t supposed to be-- like this. Stan wasn’t supposed to be in a hospital right now. He should be at home with Ford, probably trying to convince Ford to take a break, or reading a comic in his bed.

His mother's grip on his hand slackened as she stepped closer to the bed, gently resting a hand over Stanley’s.

“Oh my poor, sweet boy.” she cried, tears spilling down her cheeks. She reached to cup his cheek but her hand stilled just inches away, too afraid to touch him. Ford took a step forward, putting one hand over his mothers hand covering Stanley's.

“You were right, ma,” Ford whispers, looking at Stan’s face. It was busted, but it was manageable. All of this was, as long as Stan was still breathing, still alive. They could handle everything else together. He’d get the chance to apologize to his brother, to make up for turning his back on him. He’d be able to help him recover. They’d be able to grow old together, and that was something that Ford had been so convinced he wasn’t going to be able to experience.

Before he could catch it, a sob left his lips. An arm instantly circled his shoulders, pulling him close to his mother's side. He turned his head into her hair, inhaling the familiar smell of her hair spray.

“Shh, baby, it’s ok.” she whispered softly in his ear and Ford couldn’t help the smile on his lips.

“I know,” he replied, words bubbling from his lips, “You were right; he’s alive. He’s really alive.”

A kissed was pressed to his forehead, “I told ya, sweetie. I know my boys; Stanley’s tough.”

* * *

Ford eventually convinced Ma to go home. After all, there was still a baby at home to take care of, and it wasn’t like they could actually count on Filbrick to do anything. She hadn’t been happy to leave, but Ford reasoned that he would be here the entire time and that he’d make sure to let her know if anything happened.

It had been several hours since she left. Stan had stirred a few times but hadn’t fully woken up yet. Ford had pulled one of the chairs from the corner to Stan’s bedside and hadn’t moved since, upper torso bent over the side of the bed, six fingers intertwined with Stan’s five.

At long last, a low groan caused Ford to spring up in his seat, wide eyes intently searching Stan’s face as his features knit together.

“Stanley?” he asked, not daring to speak above a whisper, “Stan, are you awake?”

Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open, dark brown eyes cloudy and unfocused as they stared at the ceiling. Slowly, his gaze shifted to Ford’s, lips parting slightly as his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“Ford?” he asked. His voice was usually gruff, but it sounded as though his throat was coated in sandpaper, not to mention quieter than Ford had ever heard. “What-- what are you doing here? What happened?”

Ford gently squeezed Stan’s hand, “You-- you were in an accident.” he whispered, voice cracking. At the mention of the accident, the loud sound of crunching metal reverberated in his brain, “You got hurt real bad. Stan, I’m-- I’m so sorry.”

Somehow, Stan’s lips curved upwards slightly, looking almost amused, “Ain’t your fault.”

Ford couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Stan had just woken up; he didn’t want to bring up everything that had happened before the accident. He needed rest, and while Ford might be oblivious to some social nuances, he knew that talking about their fight, about Stan getting kicked out wouldn’t exactly be conducive to Stan’s rest. He wasn’t even sure if Stan could remember the fight at the moment, and Ford didn’t want to be the one to force Stan to remember.

“Are you in pain?” Ford asked, diverting the conversation.

“Eh,” Stan mused, “Can’t really feel much. I’m tired as all hell though.”

Ford chuckled softly. He brushed some of the hair off of Stan’s forehead, heart clenching as Stan leaned towards his touch. “Get some rest, Stan. I’ll be right here when you wake up again.”

Stan leans his head back against the pillow, closing his eyes with a loud exhale. Ford sits back in his seat, eyes never leaving his twin. He had assumed his brother had already fallen back asleep, but spoke up again, voice drowsy.

“Thanks, Ford.”

Ford’s eyebrows crinkle, not sure why Stan would thank him, “What for?”

Stan cracked an eye open, peering at Ford with an affectionate look that could have knocked Ford over.

“For bein’ here. It really was an accident-- your project that is. I know you’re real mad at me, but--” he trailed off, blinking slowly, obviously struggling more than he should to put words to his thoughts, “Thanks for not leavin’ me behind.”

Ford swallowed the growing lump in his throat, squeezing Stan’s hand again, “It’s nothing to thank me for.” he said, “I was stupid, Stanley. I shouldn’t have turned my back on you; I’m sorry it took--” he paused, looking at Stan’s battered body, “--this to make me se that. I’m not mad anymore, I’m just glad you’re alive. I didn’t-- I thought--” he broke off, gaze dropping to his lap as more tears threatened to spill. He took his hand back, covering his face.

Stan’s hand gripped his shoulder, grounding him in place before his thoughts had a chance to run off. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs softly, giving Ford’s shoulder a squeeze until Ford finally looks up at him, tears slipping from his eyes and running down his cheeks, “Relax, Poindexter. I’m alright, see? I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Ford took Stan’s hand in both of his, sniffing, “I was so afraid that you’d-- that I wouldn’t get the chance to apologize to you, to make it up to you. I didn’t want the last time that we talked to be that stupid fight.” The tears were coursing down his cheeks like rivers now, and Ford let them.

Stan reached his other hand over, mindful of the wires attached. He wiped the tears from Ford’s face, a tender yet sad smile on his lips.

“Everythin’s fine, Poindexter. I’m here, you’re here. There ain’t nothin’ we can’t handle as long as we got each other.”

The irony that Stan was the one in the bed, yet here he was comforting his brother was not lost to Ford. A gentle smile tugged at Ford’s face and he laughed, more out of relief.

“Wherever we go, we go together.” he said, earning a smile from his twin.

He smiled sheepishly, raising a hand, “High six?”

Stan’s gaze froze at the extended six hands. For a moment, Ford wondered if he would leave him hanging. He deserved it, that he couldn’t deny. He certainly had left Stan hanging. He was about to lower his hand when he felt Stan’s hand press against his.

“High six.” he returned, voice quivering with emotion.

For a moment, they stayed like that. Hands pressed together, small, tender smiles on their face as they stared at their twin. Once that moment passed, Ford let his hand drop.

“Get some rest, knucklehead,” he chided his twin affectionately, “I’ve kept you up long enough.”

Stan scoffed but settled back into the bed, “That’s rich comin’ from you, ya know.”

Ford rolled his eyes affectionately, “Don’t worry, you’ll be reminding me to go to sleep soon enough, but until then, that’s my job now.”

Stan merely grunts his response, closing his eyes. His hand was still intertwined with Ford’s on the bed, and Ford wasn’t about to take it back. Stan’s breathing deepened, indicating he was already asleep, and Ford let his head drop to the bedside. He was reminded that he hadn’t rest since the night before the accident as exhaustion washed over him. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to be lulled to sleep by the sound of Stan’s steady breathing, comforted by the steady reminder of his brothers presence.


End file.
